


Sending Postcards From A Plane Crash (Wish You Were Here)

by The WinneplaneO Girls (beckers), thelunaticfringe



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Distraught Pete, Fall Out Boy has long song titles, Lost Patrick, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 22:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckers/pseuds/The%20WinneplaneO%20Girls, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelunaticfringe/pseuds/thelunaticfringe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A loud whining noise fills the air, and the captain’s voice comes over the intercom.  He does well at concealing his panic, but the passengers on the plane know what is happening.  </p><p>The oxygen masks drop from the overhead compartments.  Few people put them over their faces; most are panicked, and have lost hope.  The few who use the masks do it with a sense of futility—they are not sure how having oxygen will help when they crash into the ground below.</p><p>The plane shrieks through the night sky, and when it hits the earth, there is a loud explosion.  Screams fill the air.</p><p>Soon, however, there is silence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sending Postcards From A Plane Crash (Wish You Were Here)

**Author's Note:**

> From 2007.

**SENDING POSTCARDS FROM A PLANE CRASH** **( _WISH YOU WERE HERE_ )**

_A loud whining noise fills the air, and the captain’s voice comes over the intercom.  He does well at concealing his panic, but the passengers on the plane know what is happening._

_The oxygen masks drop from the overhead compartments.  Few people put them over their faces; most are panicked, and have lost hope.  The few who use the masks do it with a sense of futility—they are not sure how having oxygen will help when they crash into the ground below._

_The plane shrieks through the night sky, and when it hits the earth, there is a loud explosion.  Screams fill the air._

_Soon, however, there is silence._

**********

**Pete Wentz . . . .**

The phone is ringing.  Why is the phone ringing?  It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning.  I just got to bed and got to sleep good, and sleep isn’t something that comes easy to me.  

This had better be good. 

Patrick’s parents are on the other end of the line.  His plane has crashed, they say.  In the middle of the woods somewhere hundreds of miles away.  They say the authorities have told them not to hold out hope; they don’t think there are any survivors.  I can hear in their voices that they think Patrick is dead. 

I hang up the phone, numb all over.  Patrick is my best friend.  He’s the only reason I don’t do the really stupid stuff anymore.  He can’t be dead.  I don’t believe it.  I can’t help but think I would just _know_ if he was dead.  I would feel it in my heart. 

There’s no sleep for me now.  I pull my clothes on and head downstairs.  I debate on whether to wake Mom and Dad, but decide not to.  No sense in worrying them. 

I walk outside with my cell phone and call Joe and Andy.  We agree to meet at Andy’s place, and I call Mr. and Mrs. Stump to let them know where I’ll be in case they hear something.  It pisses me off that they sound so hopeless—he’s their son.  I don’t care what the fucking authorities say, you don’t give up hope so easily. 

Patrick taught me that. 

Fuck, Patrick, you have to be alive. 

What would I do without you?

*********

**Patrick Stump . . . .**

When the plane goes down, I just know I’m dead.  How would I survive something like that?  Tons of metal hitting the earth that hard?  No way I’m still alive. 

Except, I’m in an awful lot of pain to be dead.  I can feel my whole body, which I guess is good, except the pain is so bad I have to turn my head and vomit.  Damn it, all I wanted was to get home in time for my birthday—Pete had this huge party planned, and I took time off from helping out the Hush Sound specifically to come home. 

Oh, shit—Pete.  I wonder if he knows.  Hell, I wonder if anyone knows.  Surely someone saw the plane go down and has called someone.  Don’t they keep a list of passengers somewhere?  I hope they don’t just assume everyone died—I’m not dead.  I’m very much alive, and would like some morphine, thank you. 

No, Patrick, don’t pass out.  That would be bad.  It’s cold out here; if you can stay awake, that means you’re not freezing to death—I think.  Seems like I read somewhere that if you can stay awake, that means hypothermia isn’t taking hold of you. 

OK, keep my mind occupied.  Where exactly am I?  Looks like maybe I got thrown away from the plane—my stomach feels bruised, which maybe means I got thrown hard enough to break my seat belt.  I’m on my back, and my legs and arms seem like they’re not bent in weird ways.  I can’t tell if anything is broken, because whenever I try to move, I feel like I’m going to faint. 

I do manage to move my head just a bit—I can see red and blue lights headed our way.  Good, that means someone is coming.  Maybe they’ll find me before I get frostbitten or something.  Can’t play guitar if my fingers fall off. 

Please someone.  Get here fast. 

I don’t know how much longer I can hold on. 

**********

**Pete Wentz . . . .**

We haven’t heard anything.  This is driving me nuts. 

Andy has made me hot tea, and I’m holding the cup in my hands.  I keep staring at the cell phone sitting on the table, willing it to ring.  Call me and say Patrick’s all right; that he’ll be home soon.  He’s not even twenty-five years old.   He can’t be dead.  And if he’s dead, it’s all my fault.  I’m the one who told him he had to come home for his birthday.  If I had just let him stay where he was, he’d still be . . . . 

No.  He’s not dead.  He’s not.  I’d know.  We have this connection, me and Patrick, and if he was dead, I’d know. 

Joe has turned on the television, and the plane crash is on the news.  From the grave looks on the faces of the newscasters, I can tell that it’s bad.  No survivors have been found yet, and I see Joe’s jaw clench, and he gets up and leaves the room.  Andy puts a hand on my shoulder, and I bite my tongue to keep from screaming.  I know Andy means well, but don’t touch me.  Sympathy will make me totally lose it. 

It’s not your fault, Andy says to me, and I look up, startled.  I forget sometimes Andy knows me almost as well as Patrick.  

Andy is looking at me, and I see he is fighting tears.  It’s not your fault, he says again.  You didn’t make the plane crash. 

But I was the reason he was on it, I tell Andy.  I should have flown to him.  Then, he’d be OK. 

Andy tries to tell me that I should be prepared, but I don’t listen.  Don’t, I tell him.  Patrick is alive.  Don’t try to tell me any different.  He’s fucking alive, and any minute now, that cell phone is going to go off, and they’re going to say he’s in the hospital, but he’s OK . . . . 

I can’t breathe. 

**********

**Patrick Stump . . . .**

It’s getting harder to breathe.  The air is so cold, it hurts my lungs.  I try focusing on other things, but sometimes, the other things hurt more than the pain.  I worry about Pete—Andy and Joe would probably be OK if something happened to me.  But, Pete—he depends on me so much.  And I depend on him just as much.  We’re a set—best friends.  What would happen to him if I was gone?  He tells me every day that I keep him sane—I balance him out.  What would happen if he didn’t have that balance? 

I have to stay conscious and focused.  I have to live.  I can’t leave everyone behind. 

I hear people walking through the wreckage.  If I could just make some kind of noise, they would find me.  Then, I’d go to the hospital, and I’d be fine. 

I open my mouth, and nothing comes out.  Fuck!  I’m so far away from the damn plane, they’ll never think to look over here.  I have to do something to draw their attention. 

There is a large rock beside my hand.  My voice won’t work.  Will my hand?  If I can just reach that rock . . . . 

The nerve endings in my arm scream in protest, but my fingers close around the rock.  Come on, I have to be able to pick it up.  I have to. 

Oh, God, it hurts so bad . . . . please, just a little strength . . . . 

Please. 

**********

**Pete Wentz . . . .**

I finally break down completely, and I’m curled up on the couch.  Andy and Joe are sitting beside me, and they are holding me so that I don’t completely fall apart.  I dimly hear the cell phone go off, and Joe lets go of me long enough to answer it.  He speaks, then touches my shoulder and hands me the phone.  There are tears running down his face, and I take the phone, expecting the worst. 

Pete, Patrick’s voice says over the phone—it’s weak and it’s rough, but it is _so_ Patrick.  

Trick, it’s you!  I sit up and I can’t help myself—I start sobbing into the phone and just blathering on.  Oh, God, I was so scared you were dead—but I knew you weren’t dead. 

I’m OK, he says.  His leg is broken and he is bruised from head to toe, but he is fine.  They are going to send him home tomorrow. 

Oh, no they’re not.  _They_ aren’t sending you anywhere.  I’m coming to get you.  You’re not traveling without me.  I won’t take that chance. 

OK, he says, and I can hear the relief in his voice.  I’ll see you soon, he says.  And stop worrying. 

I love you, Patrick, I say, and hang up the phone.  I look at Joe and Andy and I can’t help it—I burst into tears again.  He’s OK, I finally say.  I’m going to get him.  Are you coming with me? I ask. 

We all go out to the car without any hesitation.  

I’m going to get my Patrick. 

**The End**


End file.
